


Languages of Love

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Love just isn't enough.</p><p>OR</p><p>After Severus and Harry's last fight, Hermione is finally able to convince Harry to take some time off and focus on healing himself. The question is will he be able to save his partner when he returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Languages of Love

There is more than one way to say ‘I love you’.

Molly Weasley, who has never been short changed in it’s use, says it in a million other ways as well. In the knit sweaters she makes for the both of them, the warming charms woven within the threads. The bottomless picnic baskets she sends every October, filled with sweets and all of Harry’s favorites, not to mention the treacle tarts she has known the older man to double back for at Order meetings. 

For the youngest Weasley boy, it comes mostly in the form of silence. In begrudging respect of their relationship. Beyond the occasional chess match he rarely engages with Harry’s partner, but considering their former animosity, Harry is infinitely grateful and makes sure that Ron knows it. 

Luna sends them both trinkets from her travels, Harry pretends not to notice the sleeping charms in the quilt she gifts him and neither of them say anything about the candies laced with calming potions. Neville sends along potions ingredients with each letter, small notes of ‘the Inuits think this may help with the shakes’ ‘there’s a small village of wizards in the Congo, they swear by this stuff’ ‘in the Americas, there are indigenous groups who believe…’

Harry is the more vocal with his feelings. The one to storm out, barely biting back tears, the one who begs for forgiveness. After their first fight he’d come home to his things still mostly in their place, but obviously tided and gathered together, when he had questioned it, the older man looked off into the fire and told him, ‘if you wanted to leave…. I didn’t want you to suffer the day looking for this or that.’

It’s in the days after New Years, when the fireworks caused flashbacks and Severus spent the evening deflecting the curses instead of sipping his scotch by the fire, that they have a conversation a long time coming. That sometimes, a relationship isn’t enough to quell the demons. Voices rise, glasses shatter, and for the first time in their three years together- it is Severus who leaves, the thud of his cane echoing long after the door slams.

While he’s gone, Harry cleans up the broken glass, cleans the shards from his palm and wraps the wound. There are healing spells of course, but he doesn’t quite feel up to performing them, so he endures the stinging as he goes about their home, or Severus’s home…

there had never been an official conversation about it after all. When Snape had retired from teaching to take up being a mail order potion supplier, Harry had been free to come and go as he pleased without worry that a student might report his presence to the Prophet. So what if he hadn’t gone back to Grimmauld in the past six months, it was still his home. Not here.

So he endures the sting as he gathers the essentials and floos back to the haunting manor. Finds a pepper up in the bathroom cupboard and spends an hour blasting the place with cleaning spells and then another two on his hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen by hand. It feels no more like home than when he first visited though, and fire whiskey is a dirty thing. 

"Harry?" It’s Hermione’s voice and he looks up, startled, attempts to focus on the young woman’s face in the fire as she shakes her head, "I’m coming through."

“‘Mione, what…. what are you doing here?” He slurs as she shakes the soot from her hair.

"Come on, love. I’m not sure you’re in any state to floo. Stand up now, that’s a good boy. I’m going to apparate us into my apartment alright? You remember where my apartment is right? and that once you’re there, you can’t do too much magic, cause we don’t need to neighbors getting suspicious. "

Without warning, he feels as if he’s being pulled in three directions, and Hermione only sighs softly when he empties the contents of his stomach across her living room floor. It takes her a few minutes to get him settled on the couch, trashcan by his feet and warm flannel pressed into his hands as she murmurs a quiet cleaning spell to remove the evidence before placing both of their wands on the mantel behind an elaborate candle centerpiece.

She plys him with both crackers and sprite and Harry can’t help but be in awe of the love he has in his life, the fact that she doesn’t ask, simply sits next to him and allows him to rest his head in her lap. He falls asleep with a gentle hand in his hair, and in the middle of night his bladder wakes him, he is snuggled between two bodies. Carefully he snakes out from under Ron’s arm and when he returns, he stands by the bed for a moment, unsure of whether or not to get back in and if so, how to do so- until small fingers pull him back in and a much larger hand helps him settle back, head against Ron’s chest and Mione’s arm curled about his stomach as she spooned against his back.

He wakes alone, follows the smell of coffee and eggs to the couple’s kitchen, but pauses before the doorway at the sound of hushed voices.

"I’m not sure how many he sent out, Ron. That’s what worries me. Pig was here earlier with a note from Ginny, apparently she got one- and Luna fire called soon after I switched him from the couch to the bed."

"Any clue of what upset him? I swear if it was that bastard…"

"Even if it was Snape, it’s better to wait and hear both sides of the story before going in wands a blazing."

"It wasn’t.."

There are many things Harry can tolerate in the name of love, listening to Ron and Hermione argue over whether or not to hex his partner is not one of them.

"He’s right.. we just… it’s not enough." I’m not enough goes unsaid, but when Ron stands and wraps the smaller man in his arms, he knows it is heard anyway. And when the red head takes a step back and thumps his back with a, “if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go drink a pint and smoke a cigar. you know.. manly things.” Harry can’t help but laugh.

"There’s a conversation brewing, and jokes aside, it seems more her territory. So I’m going to go ahead and see if George needs anything at the shop."

One hangover potion, two cups of coffee, and a large plate of scrambled eggs and bacon later- the pair are still sitting at the kitchen table. Harry explains about the hexes, eyes locked on his silverware, unwilling to see whatever could be read on her face. He tells her about the conversation afterward, where he’d apologized, begged for forgiveness trying to explain that he had thought….

he had thought being together would be enough, and Severus had turned to him long enough to say ‘apparently not’. The screaming match afterward, each refusing to pull punches. Bringing up the night Snape had warded him out of the house without telling him why, the booby traps littered around the perimeter of the house, the constant smell of alcohol on his breath. The way Snape had waved his walking stick as he snarled about the sleepless nights, the silencing spells, the ruined potions and the curses.

"Harry… have you ever… considered trying to get help?"

He wants to say yes. Because he has tried, hasn’t he? He’s gone to the head doctors who could never help because they simply didn’t understand what it was like. They had never killed someone, they’d never been at war or held a friend as they bled out. He’d downed a potion or two, he’d ate all the ridiculous candy that Luna sent. 

and yet, even without saying it, he can hear Hermione chastising that you have to believe something can work- for it to even stand a chance. You can scream ‘Expecto Patronum’ at the top of your lungs for hours, but without the right feelings behind it all you’ve got is a sore throat.

And had he honestly given any of it a shot? No. He and Severus had fallen… into each other towards the end of the war and when it was over, hadn’t questioned the arrangement. He’d been living with an equally, if not more damaged man. There had been no reason to try and get better, he had told himself that it meant they understand each other and if nothing else… that Severus couldn’t judge him.

and he’d been wrong. 

The first week of his ‘healing journey’, as Hermione had taken to calling it, is spent with Charlie in Romania. The dragon tamer’s apartment isn’t large enough for another bed, but the couch pulls out and Harry finds the routine comforting. Bed by ten, up at 4 for a hardy breakfast and at the reserve by 6. 

It’s beautiful, watching the men work. Though he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to be learning from the experience beyond not to mess with a dragon’s eggs or babies. When he asks Charlie over lunch, the red head grins, “Who knows. But there’s magic afoot and I’m sure the newest Mrs. Weasley had her reasons for asking if you could kip on my couch.”

At the apartment, he washes with a potion that smells of eucalyptus and lemon balm. He’d intended to use his own, but the ginger tells him to give a try and he’s got nothing to lose. When he exits the steaming bathroom he can’t help but notice how much more at peace he is.

"If there’s one thing you have to learn as a Tamer, it’s how to tame your own emotions and keep others calm around you. Necessary skill when you’re trying to handle such beautiful but dangerous creatures."

"How do you do it? How do you keep your calm if one of them looks like it’s going to attack you?"

"A lot of it is just remembering that you have to keep control of the situation. Deep breathing. I know some of the boys have been known to do yoga- keeps you limber and mindful- neither of which are bad things in our profession. Others meditate. But a lot of it really is knowing that you’ve got to keep your cool, and that if something bad is about to happen, it’ll happen whether you freak out or not. Panicking would only draw attention to yourself."

On Thursday he joins a group of the dragon tamers for meditation, walks away unsure. After all, if it was enough to protect them from dragons, why shouldn’t it be enough to protect him from evils that are long since past. And sure, it helps… a little bit. He feels a little bit more in control of himself when it’s through, but it isn’t enough.

On Friday night he begs Charlie not to go out drinking with his buddies, or to let him stay home if so. The smell of alcohol still makes him think of shattering glasses and he isn’t sure that’s something he wants to deal with just yet.

"It’s okay, Harry. It’s okay. I won’t go out. We can stay in, you can help me figure out this dvd thing that Ronald brought over the last time he came to visit."

It’s nice to sit and laugh, and Charlie doesn’t say anything when Harry curls up at his side just throws an arm over his shoulder and drops a kiss on the messy mop of hair. It isn’t an offer, Harry isn’t sure Ron would take too kindly with him shacking up with one of his brothers, and Harry isn’t sure if him and Severus are actually through this time and he isn’t sure that if they are- that he’s ready to rebound. But cuddling is nice, especially since Charlie doesn’t do the ‘and now I’ve got to reaffirm my masculinity’ thing the way that Ron does.

He spends the next two weeks with Luna and Neville. The first night that he’s with them, a package from Hermione arrives, a beautiful black notebook that seemed to shift sizes as soon as he touched it, a self inking quill tucked within it’s pages.

'Harry,

I considered sending this sooner, but dragons and parchment don’t tend to do so well together.

I know you might think that a diary is a girly thing to keep, but I’ve even managed to get Ron into at least jotting a few things down most days.

When needed, it can shrink down to fit in the pocket of your robes or jeans, and can expand to much larger. I thought it might help to see your feelings on paper, or if nothing else- to keep pro and con lists of all the things you learn.

I’m so proud of you, and I hope that your week in Romania was wonderful,

-‘Mione’

The next few days are too busy to even consider the now-small book, carefully tucked in his back pocket. Luna and Neville spend most of their time traveling, Neville in search of plants and Luna for the Quibbler. For long trips they usually go together but if it’s within apparting distance the couple splits up to get their work done and Harry finds that he enjoys going with both. 

Perhaps, Neville more-so. Especially when he’s working in the green houses, fingers deep in the dirt with the plants all around him… there’s a sense of peace here too. With Luna, the most relaxing thing is being with the spacey witch, her nonsensical attitude making it hard to be anything but amused. She makes sure to show him the little candy shop in Sweden where she buys her sweets, and suddenly Harry feels bad for having suspected her of trying to send a message with them before. The thought had crossed his mind that she enjoyed them too, but had been thrown out because after all, Luna wasn’t the type to need help calming down.

When he apologizes, the smile on her face drops a fraction and she shakes her head, “Harry, we all have bad days. Though perhaps mine is more Nargles than not. I think it’s important though… to respect the sadness that comes.

You know that blanket I got you last Christmas? the one from Peru? I’ve got a matching one. It’s all fuzzy and wonderful and when I’m sad, Neville makes me some hot chocolate and I curl up with my blanket and allow myself to sleep it off.

Some times I paint my sadness too. Maybe you should try it?”

She spends two days teaching him how to conjure and mix paints. Ways to splatter them against the parchment, or leak down. What he enjoys most though, is when she takes him to an abandoned field and they lay down a large painter’s cloth, all clean and white before setting up buckets of paint next to it and basins with towels to wash in between. They dance across the cloth, following a charmed melody, dipping their feet in different colors as they go. Another time they hang large posters against the wall and paint with their hands.

 

The music this time is angry, and Luna’s finger painted creatures seem to leap off the page and when she turns to Harry, he is grateful to be given the honor to see a side to her that most never will. When she kisses his cheek and smears paint on his nose he laughs, ignoring his own canvas. It’s a gradient of reds and black, entire hand strokes down it’s length and then a poorly drawn figure in black in the middle. Luna doesn’t ask, and he’s glad because he isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be him or Snape or dementors or… anything. it’s just the way he feels.

That night he writes in the journal finally. Mostly notes to himself. To see if Severus will let him start a garden, to make a room for painting, to look into more music.

After that, he finds it easier and writes most days, as if using the first page was the hardest part. He writes letter to Severus and Hermione and Ron and Sirius and Dumbledore. He writes about how much it hurts and how much he hates being the man-who-supposedly-made-it. About understanding Moody finally and not wanting to be that way.

The last night they’re together, Luna makes him promise to come visit them again, that their tent is big enough for all three and Harry laughs and agrees. He’s reminded that there is a power in love, and how could he have forgotten that there isn’t only one kind. He’s set to visit Colin next, but the sudden appearance of Hermione’s patronus stops everything. 

When the Otter speaks, Harry thinks he stops breathing,

'Harry needs to come home now. It's Snape.'

He apparates directly to Snape’s home, and tears the house apart looking for the older man and when he can’t find him- directly to Ron and Hermione’s. The young witch isn’t there, but Ron is sitting on the couch looking pale as parchment, freckles turned sickly from hue.

"She’s with him at St. Mungo’s. Said….. said he doesn’t want you there. That bastard. But she thought you needed to know… had the right to know."

"Had the right to know what? Why is he in Mungo’s? Is he going to be okay? What’s going on?"

Everything is going 90,000 miles a minute and suddenly Harry is reminded of watching Charlie dance with a new mother, the way he’d calmly faced a dragon that could have easily killed him. Counts slowly down from ten, and then from five, willing everything in his body to calm down, Charlie’s voice telling him that it’d only get worse if he panicked.

"We were.. going to surprise you. Clean up the place while you were gone and have everything ready for when you got back. Decided on it last week, but didn’t bother checking on it till today. After all, you were going to be gone at least another week or two.

He was there. Lucky we got there when we did. Not sure when he broke in, but Mate, you’re going to have to replace your front door. Found him in a pool of his own sick, still bleeding. Shit strewn everywhere.”

Count down from ten. Imagine your happy place. Ride it out. 

He floos to Grimmauld first, stares at the damage that they hadn’t yet fixed, can’t imagine the scene that they must have been greeted with. Doesn’t let himself linger, showers and dresses in slate grey dress robes. It isn’t often he has to pull the ‘I’m Harry Potter’ card, but if it is the only thing that will get into that hospital room, it’s what he has to do.

Floos into St. Mungo’s, smiles at the receptionist who stutters before allowing him to pass. The room itself is bare and white, Hermione sits in a spare chair looking more frazzled than he’s used to seeing her, even the year that they were on the run hadn’t worn her this ragged. Severus sits in the bed, eyes locked out the window, bandaged up and looking more severe than he has any right to.

"How could you?"

It’s the first break in Harry’s new calm, and suddenly he find he can’t keep it together and he’s on his knees, hands clasped around Snape’s hand. The older man looks at him finally, startled.

"I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to make a mess on your floor. I can pay to have your door replaced."

"My floor? Severus fucking Snape I do not care about my floor or the front door. How could you? What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking?" There’s a crack in the voice, " You didn’t come back. You didn’t come back. You always… You always come back. You weren’t coming back. I just… wanted to give you your stuff back." It’s barely a wheeze and Harry can still picture coming home after their first fight, his stuff not quite packed, but still ready to be taken.

Can picture Severus, two bottles of scotch in realizing he needs to give him his stuff back. Needing to get it out of his home, to remove Harry’s scent from everything. Understands the cleaning sprees Severus always seemed to go on now. Trying to get rid of the memories. Trying to keep everything fresh and new and not painful.

Suddenly understands that for Snape, the best way he could express his love, was by being willing to give it up and let him go.

"I wasn’t… it wasn’t… it didn’t matter…. I wanted…" The man starts and finishes sentences rapidly, chest laboring as he tries to find the right words.

"No… it’s okay, Severus… I understand."

"didn’t want to hold you back anymore, Harry. You weren’t getting any better. I wasn’t enough… you deserve to heal, deserve to be free from this."

There is more than one way to say ‘I love you’.

For Severus, it is selling the liquor cabinet and agreeing to go to meditation with Charlie. He takes it up much better than the yoga, gripes that ‘old men shouldn’t bend like that’ and says nothing when Harry reminds him that by Wizarding standards he isn’t that old. It’s making room for a garden in the thicket of their backyard.

When Luna asks for a sponsor, Harry is the first to front the galleons, even willing to go back to work if that’s what it takes to keep her doors open. Severus visits her monthly, though won’t whisper a word about what eccentric therapy it is that she helps him with. Neville helps supply them both with both magic and muggle elixirs, still regales them with stories of his travels and the many mentors he owes his work to.

For Harry, it is helping clean house every two weeks, holding back long locks as his partner detoxes from years of alcoholism, and making dinner for everyone on every other Sunday. It’s the matching rings him and Snape both wear now, and the days he spends in the potion’s lab working with rather than against the old man.

There are as many ways to heal as there are to say ‘I love you’ and they’re both still trying to figure it all out, but at least they’re trying.


End file.
